


to watch and listen

by JessenoSabaku



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Gen, Guilt, Spirits, Spiritual, Survivor Guilt, Vignette, alternative universe, open to lots of interpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 20:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessenoSabaku/pseuds/JessenoSabaku
Summary: Every year, McCree came, and sometimes more than once. To this shop that nobody owned, with a rusted-over sign, nobody else in business for miles except municipal buildings and corporate-owned grocers, small gas stations run by people who had it hard and were trying their luck in the business of gasoline. Hanzo knew they couldn't keep coming here. They both knew. He had said as much before, and like always, McCree refused to hear.





	to watch and listen

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote while testing out the Fighter's Block app online, which is supposed to help you break through writer's block by simulating the writing process as a battle against monsters. Every certain amount of words you complete gets you some experience points. It's pretty cool! I highly recommend it as a fun exercise, because the longer you sit without writing, the more your health drains. That means you have to just write, and experiment, and let it be what it is, and I find that charming. Here's the app if you want to try it: http://cerey.github.io/fighters-block/#
> 
> This is pretty loosey-goosey and vague, and I don't claim it's good. But I've brought it into the world and I might as well let it breathe in public. Hope you enjoy!

Hanzo turned to McCree, giving him an uncompromising stare. The dingy shag of the cowboy's brown hair hung over his face in a dusty curtain, just barely obscuring whiskey-flecked eyes underneath. His chin was in his hand, and he stared out the window from underneath the shadow of his grimy hat.

This yearly visit that McCree had started making was hard to get used to. Years of obligation to his father had made Hanzo a man who could uphold but responsibility to his family, but the expectations that anyone else held of him were difficult to manage. Talking to McCree was a perpetual frustration, and often felt meaningless, but he supposed this was what he was expected to do. To feign conversation. To show respect, even where some days no respect was felt. To watch and listen, as he had done for his father, for the silent gods, and for the homeland he came from.

When McCree spoke he sounded out sardonic, heavily-accented words. They issued forth from the same droning wellspring as everything else that came out of his mouth. He wondered aloud, "Maybe if you coulda just fallen outta love with this little corner of bumfuck nowhere, you coulda gone somewhere new. Got more business, different business. Made somethin' of yourself that ain't tragic, or angry. Though I know how you like bein' angry."

Hanzo ignored him, as he always did. There was no point in humoring the jabs of an insolent fool. McCree knew very well why Hanzo couldn't leave this place, this little rundown shop in an abandoned strip on the West Coast. Even if Hanzo spoke up to remind him of the facts, he doubted McCree would listen. He was too headstrong, and Hanzo's voice growing weaker with every visit, along with his resistance.

Still, every year, McCree came, and sometimes more than once. To this shop that nobody owned, with a rusted-over sign, nobody else in business for miles except municipal buildings and corporate-owned grocers, small gas stations run by people who had it hard and were trying their luck in the business of gasoline. The only people who came here were the poor, the criminal, and the humanitarian. Hanzo guessed that at least McCree could be considered a man belonging to two of those categories.

But Hanzo knew they couldn't keep coming here. They both knew. He had said as much before, and like always, McCree refused to hear.

McCree's boots crunched over broken glass and he pulled out an old, creaking chair from the corner, sitting facing the backrest, folding his arms over the top. He lit a cigarillo and, taking a puff, sighed nostalgically. "Sometimes I remember sittin' here, back when this place was nothin'. Back when the walls were pink, and you had to repaint 'em. You were so mad. I'm guessin' you still are. Brokerin' information for folks like me didn't work out real well for you, did it?"

A memory of metal hail assailed Hanzo's consciousness. The flash of guns, silver bolts on leather holsters, gold chains and performative jewelry on the hands of thick-fingered men. No, it did not work out well. For himself, or McCree, to whom Hanzo had imparted tips on more than one occasion. No, neither of them had escaped this unassuming place completely intact. They were both still stuck here.

"It wasn't your fault," Hanzo reminded him, and as he expected, the words went unheeded. He watched McCree smoke his cigarillo, stand, and crush the blackened stub with his heel. He looked back toward Hanzo, looking right through him, not seeing him at all.

He tossed a single white lily, the stem broken, onto the floor. "You ain't got no choice but to leave here. When you do, I hope you find your peace to do it on your own, instead of kickin' and screamin'."

Hanzo watched McCree walk out and turn the corner, heading down the vacant street. Hanzo could not follow. He felt another fragment of himself break off and vanish, like dust filtered through the waning light. He wanted to tell McCree that if it were up to him, he would leave in a heartbeat. This world held no love for him, and he bore no attachments. But as long as McCree returned here, year after year, full of sadness and with crushed offerings in hand, where could Hanzo go? There would always be the allure of expectation, and obligation.

Soichiro had raised him to lift up the weak. He could only go where he was needed, and that was why he stayed. Though night fell and sirens sang in the streets, he did not move, nor did he sleep. As long as McCree returned, Hanzo’s eyes would remain open.


End file.
